


Within Sight

by rubberbutton



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Drama, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 20:52:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubberbutton/pseuds/rubberbutton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a curse blinds Arthur, his position as heir is threatened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Within Sight

Arthur urged his horse up the narrow path, its hooves churning deeply into the mud. The wind gained strength as they reached the crest of the hill, driving sheets of rain into his face and pushing the hood of his cloak from his head. He ignored his aching back and twisted in the saddle to peer behind him. Merlin had been silent for the past hour, and that was worrying -- the less Merlin complained the more miserable he was.

Merlin sat in the saddle like a sack of grain, his shoulders hunched and his free hand tucked firmly in an armpit. His sodden clothes stuck to his thin frame, and he looked even more bedraggled than usual.

“We're almost home,” Arthur called. They would have been home already if the river hadn't burst its banks, flooding the bridge. The route to the next crossing had taken them far out of their way. “No more than two hours, at most.” He adopted his most confident tone, the one he used to lead the men into battle.

“If we don't drown first,” Merlin said with a shiver, tugging at his collar.

Arthur smiled at Merlin's dour tone and turned back around just as his horse shied to the left. After miles of plodding, the sudden motion took Arthur by surprise. Only years of practise allowed him to keep his seat as the horse wheeled away. He heard Merlin cry out in alarm, but Arthur's attention was still on his fractious mount. The horse reared and the saturated ground gave way beneath it. Arthur feared the horse would fall and crush him, but after a gut-twisting lurch, the beast regained its balance.

Merlin was yelling something, but Arthur couldn't hear him, couldn't understand the words. Reining in his horse, Arthur saw a dark figure moving toward them. His horse whinnied in panic and sidled away as the form approached, raising its hands. They glowed with the blue-green light of witchfire, growing so bright that Arthur shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the entire world was enveloped in blackness.

This time when his horse reared, Arthur fell.

\---

He was aware of the pain first, the cold second, and the sound of his name breathlessly chanted third.

“Arthur, Arthur, oh please, Arthur, come on.”

Merlin, of course. Arthur put a hand to his throbbing head. “Don't you mean, 'Oh please, _Sire_, come on?' And then you may want to add some bit about your life having no meaning if I'm dead.”

Merlin laughed weakly. “Well, if you're going to be like that, I'm not at all sure that I _do_ want you to live.”

“Where's the sorcerer?” Arthur asked. He opened his eyes and blinked. He could see nothing; the spell that kept them in darkness still held.

“Gone,” Merlin said, but his tone wasn't quite certain.

“You fought him?”

“No, no, of course not,” Merlin said hastily. “He just sort of ... ran off. And you were still unconscious; I couldn't leave you.”

“Right,” Arthur agreed, amused by the thought of Merlin pursuing a dangerous sorcerer on his own. He pushed himself up and felt Merlin's hand on his shoulder. “I have my flint, but nothing will burn in this damp. And I doubt any mundane fire would be able to pierce this infernal darkness anyway. Does it extend very far, do you think?”

“What?” Merlin asked.

“At least it seems to have stopped raining. We should be able to follow the road without too much trouble, assuming we start the right way down it.” Suddenly Arthur wasn't at all sure which direction was which. Ah well -- he'd figure it out.

“It's not dark.”

“What are you on about? It's black as pitch,” Arthur said crossly, wishing Merlin would be a little more help.

Merlin released Arthur's shoulder, and there was the sound of mud squelching as he shifted. “Can you not see this? I'm waving my hand right in front of your face.”

“I'm _blind_,” Arthur said slowly, and then, an edge of hysteria creeping into his voice, “My God, what am I to do?”

“I'm sure it's not permanent,” Merlin said. “It'll probably wear off in just a bit. Are you all right?”

“Besides the blindness, you mean?” Arthur snapped.

“Uh, yeah.”

Arthur took a moment to assess his physical state. His shoulder ached where he'd fallen, but it wasn't dislocated. Everything else -- except his eyes -- seemed to be in working order. “I think so.”

There were more squishy noises, and then cold, muddy hands grasped his wrists. “Come on, up you go.”

Arthur let himself be levered to his feet. Merlin's arm snaked around his waist, and Arthur looped an arm around Merlin's neck. Even with that support, he still tripped twice before they caught up to his horse. Between the two of them, they got him into the saddle.

The ride back seemed even longer with no way to mark their progress; he was too proud to ask Merlin. He crossed his arms, hands feeling empty without the reins, and prayed.

\---

This time when Arthur woke, he was warm and dry, and though he felt wrung out, he wasn't in pain. He recognised the feel of his mattress and the softness of his linen nightshirt under his fingers, though he had only faint memories of Merlin helping him into it.

“Can't you do anything for him, Gaius? Cure him?” Uther's voice was low but harsh, as if he could threaten a cure out of the old physician.

“I assure you, Sire, I am doing everything in my power to help him.”

“Are you sure the blindness is magical? I've seen men with head injuries lose their sight.” A lump rose in Arthur's throat, and he wanted to turn over and pull the pillow over his head, but he couldn't without betraying his wakefulness.

“It is impossible to be certain, but judging from Merlin's report, I would guess that the cause is magical in nature rather than brain trauma. But I will have to test his reflexes and condition to be sure. For now, it is better to let him sleep.”

There was a lengthy pause, and Arthur imagined he felt his father's unhappy scowl upon him.

“Fix this, Gaius -- I can't have a blind heir.” The door slammed, hard enough that Arthur felt it.

“Pleasant man, your father,” Merlin said genially, apparently seeing past Arthur's feigned sleep. “How do you feel?”

Arthur groaned and pushed the bedclothes off. “Thirsty.”

“How much do you remember of your ordeal?” Gaius asked, the bed dipping as he settled beside Arthur. He took Arthur's face in his hands, pulling back on the lid of each eye. Elsewhere in the room, Arthur heard the sound of pouring water.

“I remember riding back; we had to take the long way 'round. There was a sorcerer -- he frightened my horse, and I didn't see him at first. Then light,” Arthur flinched at the memory of the brightness, “and then darkness. My horse threw me, blasted animal. When I woke up, I couldn't see.”

“Are you quite sure it went dark before you fell? Not after?” Gaius asked while his gnarled fingers probed Arthur's scalp, feeling for bumps or knots.

“Yes, I'm sure. I was startled by it; it's why I lost my seat.”

The hands retreated and Gaius sighed. “Well, you may have a mild concussion, but I don't think it is the reason for your blindness.”

“Is that good?” The cool pewter of a drinking cup was pressed into his hand. He raised it to his lips and nearly spat it out; the water was astringent and bitter.

“Drink it,” Merlin said, with more authority than was proper.

“Yes, Sire,” Gaius added, far more respectfully. “There's feverfew to help with any swelling in the brain, in case it is the cause, and willow bark for pain.”

Arthur downed the contents in three shuddering gulps. “If the blindness is magical, can you heal it?”

Gaius drew a breath before answering and Arthur got the distinct impression he was exchanging a look with Merlin. “Your father has sent riders out to find the sorcerer who did this. Forcing him to lift the curse is the most certain course, but there are certainly some remedies we might try in the meantime.”

“So that would be a no,” Arthur said, not at all appeased by Gaius's cheerful tone.

“Now, now,” Gaius said, but he didn't argue. “If you're feeling well enough, then I'll go consult my books. Unless you require anything....” Arthur waved him away. Gaius shuffled off, probably bowing out of habit, and the door clicked closed.

“He doesn't think I'll be cured, does he,” Arthur said, after he'd gone.

In the following silence Arthur thought perhaps Merlin had slipped out with Gaius, but then a boot heel scraped along the stone floor.

“Herbal teas are all very well, but it takes magic to undo magic,” Merlin said. “If it is magic, I mean. We don't know for certain that it is.” But he tacked that on as an afterthought. “It might be a short-term thing, fade on its own -- you never know.”

“You're an idiot,” Arthur said, and shot the space where he thought Merlin was an annoyed look.

“Yes, well,” Merlin said, clapping his hands. “How about some breakfast?”

\---

Gaius had him try three potions that afternoon. Two did nothing. One did nothing but make him empty his stomach into the chamber pot.

“Not the pixiewort, then,” Gaius said.

\---

The first week of his blindness, Arthur refused to leave his room, allowing only Merlin and Gaius to see him. And Morgana, of course -- though he didn't so much allow her entrance as fail to prevent it.

“How are you feeling?” she asked and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead.

“I feel fine, Morgana,” he said, pushing her hand away. “I'm not sick, and I don't have a fever.”

“No need to be so touchy. I'm just checking,” she said. “You should hear the rumours going around -- that you're crippled, disfigured or desperately ill.”

“Just blind,” he said, “you can put your mind at ease. And tell the court.”

“They're not going to believe until they see you for themselves -- yes, yes, ironic, I know, don't even start,” she said, running over his protest. “It would be good for you to reassure them.”

“How does seeing their future king blind and helpless reassure them?” Arthur said sourly.

“Arthur, they're imagining the worst. If they see you alive, in good health and spirits, it will do much to allay their fears. They take their cue from you more than Uther. Besides, you're their prince; they deserve to see you.” She laid her cool soft hand over his, but when she squeezed, it felt like a vise.

He swallowed against the bitterness in his mouth. “I can't face it, the court watching me knock over my wine and spill gravy down my shirtfront. Not today.”

“There is a feast two nights hence, perhaps then?” she suggested gently. “That would give you time to prepare.” Her hair brushed his face as she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “It will be all right, Arthur.”

“You sound awfully confident,” Arthur said, wondering just when he had agreed to her plan.

“I always am.”

\---

Even with Merlin's coaching, Arthur did not share Morgana's confidence the day of the feast. He'd had Merlin set out a formal place at every meal and practised finding the proper fork by feel. He'd had Merlin help him select his attire but second-guessed his opinion. Merlin's fashion sense was tragic.

“And how's my hair?” Arthur asked; he tugged nervously at the hem of his doublet.

“It's _still_ great. Just like it was a quarter of an hour ago,” Merlin said, exasperation colouring his tone. “The ladies will all be jealous.”

Arthur smoothed a strand between his fingers, hoping it would lie flat. “And this coat?”

“Blue suits you admirably. It goes well with the hair.”

“What--”

“You look very fit,” Merlin cut in. “Erm, Sire. You look very fit, _Sire_.” Merlin was beginning to sound desperate, and Arthur wondered if maybe his preparations hadn't been a little excessive.

He heaved one last sigh. “All right, I'm ready.”

\---

The king's guests were circulating in the great hall, the rustle of their silk and satin robes loud against the flagstones and their voices echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Arthur squared his shoulders and raked a hand through his hair one last time, trying to look as though it was perfectly usual for him to have a servant lead him around.

“Lady Ardith closing in,” Merlin whispered. “And I think she's had too much.”

“Oh, my prince!” Lady Ardith nearly shrieked. She took his free hand and squeezed, hard.

Arthur winced and murmured, “Lady Ardith, it's a pleasure as always.” He kissed the back of her hand. “I trust you are in good health.”

“Well enough, Sire,” she said. “It's your _own_ health I'm concerned about.” She sounded almost weepy.

“Don't worry, I'm quite all right. You can see for yourself.”

“But you're, you're....” She trailed off, his predicament too horrible for words.

“I'm sure I'll make a full recovery in no time. In the meanwhile, there may be a few, ah, inconveniences, but it's not the worst I've suffered.” Merlin shifted beside him, probably irritated to be described as an _inconvenience_.

“So brave,” Lady Ardith clucked, sniffing loudly. “Such a brave boy.”

Merlin muttered a pardon and ushered Arthur away. They ended up talking to Lord Brun, who was an avid breeder of hunting dogs. He didn't mention Arthur's infirmity, and it was quite possible he didn't notice it, either -- he had little interest in anything beyond his dogs. His conversation was limited, but a relief; Arthur merely had to agree and occasionally ask encouraging questions.

“My best bitch -- Blodeuwedd, of course -- she was out of the hill stock,” Lord Brun said. “Finest litters I've ever seen.”

“She sounds like quite the … bitch,” Arthur said, and Merlin hiccoughed as though he were trying very hard not to laugh.

“Oh, she was,” Lord Brun continued, oblivious. “Long legs, deep breasted.”

Merlin was definitely trembling now. He might have well lost it, but the stewards called for the feast to begin, and Merlin led Arthur away to his place at the head table. Here Merlin retreated, but Arthur found it easier to navigate his own plate. Servants whispered the name of the dish as they filled his plate.

He sat next to Uther, who was preoccupied by the guest of honour, a Duke of Something-or-Other. Morgana sat on Arthur's other side and kept sharing entertaining observations.

“Lady Ardith is gesturing with her wine glass and is about to empty it in Lord Dydimon's lap if she isn't care--and there it goes. Oh!” She giggled. “And he's wearing white, and you know that's never going to come out. He looks as though he's been stabbed.”

“That was very nearly me,” Arthur said, relieved to have escaped such a fate. “Maybe next time she'll think twice before refilling her cup.”

“I hope not,” Morgana countered. “I thought tonight would be boring.” She hesitated and nudged his foot with her own. “I'm glad you decided to come.”

“Are they staring at me?” he asked through a strained smile.

“Not at the moment, no. Lady Ardith is trying to sop Dydimon's lap with her skirts.”

Arthur snorted at the image that called to mind. He took a long drink from his wine glass, the tight knot in his stomach easing for the first time that evening. He even managed to enjoy his pheasant and stewed apple.

Toasts went around as the diners finished the meal, and the wine flowed more freely. First for the guest of honour -- whose name Arthur still hadn't caught -- and then for Uther as a gracious host; it seemed everyone felt the need to offer up their own praise, though they mostly repeated each other.

Arthur was actually glad to have a good reason to stare into space with a blank expression.

There was a heavy sigh in his ear. “Do you think they'll end soon?” Merlin whispered, and his fingers closed over Arthur's on his cup, holding it still to be refilled.

“I'm just hoping they end at all,” Arthur said, and Merlin huffed a laugh, his breath tickling Arthur's ear. “Thanks.” Arthur sipped from his freshly filled goblet.

The speeches did finally end, though Arthur's backside was close to numb when the last would-be orator had finished. Arthur pushed away from the table and held out a hand, Merlin already at his side, doubtless as eager to leave as Arthur was. They wove their way through the departing courtiers, crossing the expanse of the great hall.

Perhaps it was the wine that made Arthur overly confident or Merlin inattentive, but Arthur found himself meeting a large and unyielding body, the sharp edge of a serving tray catching him in the ribs. He stepped backward, his foot turning and his arms pinwheeling as he fell. He hit hard and awkwardly, the breath knocked from his body. Plates and half-empty trenchers fell around him, stoneware shattering and the large tray clanging against the stone. Arthur struggled to push himself up, scrabbling against the shards of pottery and spilled food.

“Are you all right?” Merlin said, his voice panicked. He knelt by Arthur, taking hold of his arm. Beyond Merlin, the entire hall had gone quiet and still; Arthur heard nothing over his own laboured breathing.

“Fine,” Arthur said, through gritted teeth, shoving Merlin away. “You're supposed to watch where you're going. The idea is to _not_ run me into anyone.” He gained his feet, and brushed himself off as best he could. He was shaking with rage and embarrassment, his face painfully hot. A servant was muttering abject apologies, but Arthur ignored him. “Get me out of here, if you can do it without killing me.”

Merlin took his arm again, his grasp tentative. Arthur's tunic was soaked with what smelled like gravy, and it clung to his skin. Footsteps retreated hastily before them as people hurried to get out of their way.

\---

“I won't require you to attend me this evening,” Arthur said as they returned to his room.

“Do you want--”

“No. Leave now,” Arthur cut Merlin off coldly. The door clicked shut as Merlin left.

He'd stripped to the waist and was sponging the worst of the mess from his hair when the door swung open again, banging against the stone.

“It's me.” _Morgana_. Arthur winced.

“Come to check on the invalid?” he said, annoyed. “Your concern is touching.”

“I don't give two figs about _you_,” she said, her voice thin and reedy with anger.

Arthur sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose; he could feel a headache coming on. “No, of course not.”

“How could you be so beastly?” The hem of her gown whispered as she crossed the floor. He didn't have to see to know that her hands were on her hips. “Poor Merlin -- you really are insufferable.”

“His damn clumsiness shamed me in front of the entire court,” Arthur said. “You're lucky _your_ servant is competent.”

“It was an accident,” Morgana snapped. “He feels terrible--”

“_Good_.”

“--and it really wasn't his fault.” She made a little sound of exasperation that wasn't quite a growl and wasn't quite a sigh. “If you knew how hard he was taking this whole thing. Honestly, Arthur, I think he's lost weight, if that's possible. And he's got terrible circles under his eyes.”

Arthur scowled, ignoring the pang of guilt. “That's not my fault.”

“He cares for you far more than you deserve, and you shouldn't treat him so ill. Not everything is about you, contrary to what you may believe.”

Arthur braced both hands against the table, letting his head fall forward. “Is that all?”

“Yes, that's all,” Morgana said, though she probably had more she would have liked to add. He heard her snort in indignation once more and retreat, the door slamming shut to punctuate her exit.

Arthur dropped the rag in the basin and went to bed.

\---

Merlin remained silent the next morning as he came to dress Arthur, saying nothing beyond the perfunctory greeting and a few questions about Arthur's wishes for breakfast.

“It doesn't matter,” Arthur said in answer to a question about how he preferred his eggs.

“I'm _sorry_, Sire.”

Arthur knew from Merlin's anguished tone that he didn't mean the eggs. The hinges on the wardrobe squeaked as Merlin rummaged through it and returned with Arthur's coat. Arthur held still while Merlin helped him into it, fussing with the collar.

“It's ... all right.” Arthur caught Merlin's wrist and squeezed, feeling muscle and bone under the coarse material of the cuff. “But no runny yolks.”

\---

Arthur spent most of the following days in his chamber. Occasionally he had duties to attend, but he took to sending Merlin with his apologies and a flimsy excuse. He half expected Uther to storm in and demand he behave as a prince ought, but his father seemed willing to tolerate his shirking.

That worried Arthur deeply.

He also had trouble sleeping. Without sunlight to mark the beginning and ending of the day, the concept began to mean very little to him. He slept later and later, sending Merlin away when he came to wake him.

At night, though, late enough that it might be called early morning, he would venture out. The dark didn't bother him, of course, and the rest of the castle was asleep; there were no servants to mutter as they passed or to offer help he didn't want.

He made his way by memory and by feel, fingertips trailing against the rough stone walls of the castle. The first few nights he ventured out, he got lost, one bad turn getting him hopelessly turned around. But he soon developed a sense of direction that didn't rely on his memories of the grounds, and he dared to go father into the belly of the keep, the ruins of the old fortress Camelot had been built over.

One night, not long after he'd started these excursions, he found himself in a part of the keep he hadn't been in before. The passage he followed descended sharply, the floor no longer stone but packed dirt, and he came to a heavy iron-enforced door. It was barred, but not locked.

He hesitated, hands on the rough wood of the crossbar. He'd heard of a great catacomb and of twisting caverns below the city -- if he got lost....

With a heave, he lifted the crossbar and set it aside. He entered the passageway, keeping one hand on the wall and the other hand on the low ceiling. The temperature dropped as the corridor wound deeper, and he wished he'd worn more than his thin shirt.

The passage split several times, and at each divide he stopped and ran the return route through his head, careful to mark each turn. After one such split, the wall stopped and the ceiling ascended beyond Arthur's reach. He heard water dripping and its echoes, suggesting a vast space.

“Stay where you are, Prince. But another three steps and you would fall to your death,” a deep and gravelly voice said.

Arthur heart pounded, but he kept his feet firmly planted. “Who are you?” he called.

“A prisoner of your father's.” There was no malice, no resentment in the voice, just weariness. “The particulars are of no consequence.”

“How could you know me?”

“How could I not?” the voice said, which wasn't much of an answer. “You are Arthur Pendragon, and I have heard much of you. You are in quite a predicament.”

That was brilliant; even prisoners in the darkest and dankest dungeon were up on the latest gossip. “I'm sure that pleases you, to see an enemy brought low.”

“You are not my enemy,” the voice replied, unruffled. “But you stand at the edge of a precipice.”

“Yes, yes, you've said that,” Arthur said, feeling a bit exasperated.

“A _metaphorical_ precipice.”

“Oh.”

“I have some advice for you. You must know who to trust, Arthur Pendragon. And before you can, you yourself must be trustworthy.”

“Will you be reading my palm next?” Arthur asked, equal parts irritated and amused. “Or casting bones? Any market-day charlatan could come up with prophesies like yours.”

The voice -- or The Voice, as Arthur had started to think of it -- chuckled. “One more thing. Be careful, lest you do not see what is right before you.” The voice laughed again.

“Now that's just cruel,” Arthur protested, his irritation becoming anger. “I am the crown prince of Camelot, you can't speak to me--”

“You should return now,” the prisoner cut in, unperturbed by Arthur's anger. It wasn't a suggestion, but an order.

Arthur shivered; the chill was settling into his bones. “If I can even find my way out of this infernal pit.”

“I think help may be on the way.” There was the sound of a chain rattling and sails catching the wind; a breeze pushed Arthur's hair from his forehead. Arthur took an involuntary step backward and shivered again, wondering just what sort of person his father had locked down here.

He made his way slowly back, no longer certain whether it was a left turn at the third split. Footsteps echoed up the passage in front of him, and he heard the hiss of a torch.

“Arthur! Arthur, what are you doing down here?” Merlin said, sounding frightened.

Arthur shrugged. “Out for a walk.”

“You're quite mad,” Merlin told him, taking Arthur's arm firmly. “Really. The eyesight is the least of your worries.”

“How did you know I was down here?” Arthur asked, the prisoner's final words still echoing in his head.

“Oh, erm. You know. Just a hunch,” Merlin said, pulling him along a little faster.

\---

Arthur didn't go down below the castle again, restricting himself to the upper corridors. He wasn't keen to run into ... whatever it was again. And besides, he was sure that Merlin was keeping an eye on him; he seemed to lurk about even more than usual, and the back of Arthur's neck itched. The presumption of it irked Arthur, but he never actually caught Merlin following him, and he didn't want to appear paranoid if his supposition was incorrect, so he let it slide.

As if avoiding the same topic, Merlin didn't press him about his excursion, instead becoming ever more forcedly cheerful. He told Arthur the castle gossip with the same pride as a cat leaving dead mice on the doorstep and tried to steer Arthur away from his wine goblet in the evening.

“You could go out sometime,” Merlin would suggest, but Arthur flatly refused.

“One staggering public humiliation is enough, thank you.”

\---It was morning, early morning -- far earlier than Arthur had been rising recently -- and he was not happy about it. He groaned as the curtains were pulled back from his bed and the hot morning sun hit his face. “Go away, Merlin.”

“Good morning!” Merlin said brightly. “Sleep well?”

“I can have you put in the stocks, you know.”

“What's that?” Merlin said, snatching the counterpane and tugging. “You need help getting up? Why, of course I'll help.” Arthur made a grab for the bedclothes, but Merlin held onto them. “I have a bucket of water here if it will help the process.”

“You wouldn't.”

“Care to try me?” Merlin said, and Arthur found he didn't. “Come on, we're going out today.”

“Merlin….” Arthur said warningly. Merlin was digging through the wardrobe; Arthur could hear him dropping things.

“Gwen's made up a picnic lunch. We can ride out for the day.” Something landed on Arthur's face -- his shirt. “You could use the fresh air. You haven't left your room for three days.”

“I like my room,” Arthur said, tugging his nightshirt over his head reluctantly. “And I am not riding out so the peasants can gawk at me.”

“They're not going to gawk, most are too busy with their own chores to worry about what you're doing,” Merlin said, collecting Arthur's nightshirt. “And we'll be out in the country anyway.”

“I absolutely refuse,” Arthur said. “And that's the end of it.”

\----

He really did have the absolute worst servant in the whole history of bad servants, Arthur reflected as they passed out of the lower town. With most servants, lying, shirking, and theft were about the worst of it, but this….

“I thought we might stop for lunch out on the other side of the falls. Mmm, I think Gwen slipped in some sweetmeats in as well.”

…This was intolerable, being strong-armed by his own servant; it really was the lowest--

“Wait. Sweetmeats?” Arthur asked.

“With raisins,” Merlin confirmed.

Arthur considered this. “It is rather nice near the falls, I suppose.”

\---

It was, too. The falls weren't very grand, just a cascade where the creek ran down a wooded slope to a shallow pool, but there was a musicality to the sound of falling water, and it was cooler here, too.

“I came here often as a boy,” Arthur said as he dismounted, waiting for Merlin to tether the horses and collect him along with the basket. “Whenever I could escape my tutors, this was where I'd run to.”

“It's nice. Peaceful,” Merlin agreed, taking Arthur's hand and setting it on his elbow. They were used to this now, and it no longer felt so invasive. Arthur had become accustomed to keeping a step behind, and Merlin pointed out hazards automatically now. The bruises they'd both worn the first few weeks had faded. The dependency still frustrated Arthur a dozen times a day, but it could have been worse.

“Here's a good spot,” Merlin said. “Let me get the food set out.” He did so with a speed that surprised Arthur; Merlin could be quite quick when he wanted. He poured Arthur a glass of wine and Arthur sipped it.

They worked their way through ham, pheasant, sharp cheese, grapes, and an entire loaf of bread -- plus a rather generous measure of wine. Arthur wasn't sure how much he'd had; his glass never emptied.

“You should have watered this wine,” Arthur said, blinking sleepily.

“I would have if I'd known you'd drink so much,” Merlin said. “Here you are, the crown prince, three sheets to the wind. I hope no one sees you like this -- it can't be good for the image.”

“I'm not that drunk,” Arthur said, affronted. “I'm fine.”

Merlin snorted. “Can you even stand up without falling over?”

“I can do a good deal more than that,” Arthur said and launched himself at Merlin. He had to orient himself when he landed, but luckily Merlin was so surprised it took him a moment before he could react.

“What are you--ugh,” Merlin grunted as Arthur's elbow caught him in the stomach. Merlin recovered from his surprise and fought back, catching Arthur's wrist and trying to bend his arm behind his back. Arthur slipped out of it, twisting against Merlin's thumb to break his grip. He grinned as they scuffled; in this form of combat, at least, he didn't need his eyes. This was all feel and instinct.

Merlin had improved, but not enough. They'd rolled off the blanket, and Arthur got a face full of grass and dirt as Merlin unexpectedly changed directions. The move was a bad one, though; it allowed Arthur to shove him over onto his stomach, one arm snaking around Merlin's shoulder joint, immobilising his arm. Arthur's other arm caught Merlin's throat in the crook of his elbow. Arthur seized his own wrist, locking the choke hold. Merlin writhed for another minute, too stupid to know he'd been beaten. Tightening the hold, Arthur waited, and Merlin finally went limp.

Arthur gave him a little slack. “Do you yield?” Arthur caught the scent of lye soap and the clean sweat on the back of Merlin's neck. “_Do you yield_?”

“Yes, yes, fine. I yield. This is me yielding.” Arthur waited a moment more to make sure Merlin meant it and released him. “I had you there for a minute, though.”

“No you didn't; you only _thought_ you did,” Arthur said smugly. Merlin helped him to his feet and they made their way back to the blanket, though for once, Merlin leaned more on Arthur rather than the other way 'round.

“I told you you'd have a good time today. I knew you would, even if--” Merlin cut himself off.

“Even if I'm blind?” Arthur said without heat, though the warmth the wine had given him dissipated.

“Erm. Yeah. Sorry. I didn't mean it like that,” Merlin said abashedly.

Arthur shrugged. “It's the truth.”

They sat a moment, and Arthur wondered what Merlin was thinking.

“Have you considered....” Merlin cleared his throat. “None of Gaius's remedies have worked.” Arthur waited for Merlin to go on, and after a lengthy pause, he cleared his throat again. “Maybe only magic can lift the curse.”

“Camelot's best knights have scoured the countryside, and my father has put a high price on the sorcerer's head,” Arthur replied. “What else can be done?” Merlin hesitated, drawing a deep breath. “Just say what's on your mind, already. I can practically hear it rattling around that thick skull.”

“Surely there are other sorcerers who would be able to undo the curse, if you could find them....”

“No,” Arthur said flatly. “My father would never allow it.”

“Does he need to know?” Merlin asked gently.

“I will not betray his trust,” Arthur said hotly. “And I will not betray Camelot for my own gain. Perhaps I am unfit to rule, but I am not so low as to introduce sorcery into court and undermine everything my father has worked for.”

“Of course not, Sire,” Merlin muttered, and started packing things away.

\---

Merlin was uncharacteristically subdued on the ride back, but Arthur tried not to notice.

\---

Merlin's quietude lasted until they'd retired for the evening, and he said almost angrily, “You're not '_unfit_.'” He fumbled with the lacings on the front of Arthur's shirt. “Even if you never regained your sight -- which I'm sure you will, of course, but even if you didn't -- you would be a great king.”

“Merlin?”

“Yes?”

Arthur caught Merlin's hands, stilling them. “Shut up.”

“Okay.”

Arthur leaned forward, until his forehead met Merlin's shoulder. The material of his jacket was rough against Arthur's face. He dropped Merlin's hands so he could follow the curve of his arm up to embrace him.

“Erm, Arthur?”

“What did I _just_ say?” He tugged the knot of Merlin's neckerchief and pulled it loose, leaving the smooth skin of Merlin's neck bare. Arthur dropped the bit of cloth and pressed his cheek to the warmth, his fingers curling in the soft hair behind Merlin's ear.

“Right,” Merlin said and his arm wound around Arthur's waist. “I'm shutting up … but….”

“Merlin, I can't do this if you're talking,” Arthur whispered, and his stomach twisted as it occurred to him that Merlin might not _want_ him to do this. Arthur both wished he could see Merlin's expression and was relieved that he couldn't.

Merlin leaned into him, a full-body press that Arthur instinctively recognised as an invitation. Arthur gently nipped the skin above Merlin's pulse, and Merlin jumped but for once held his tongue. Arthur backed him toward the bed, and Merlin managed to keep them from going afoul of the furniture. They stumbled into the bed, collapsing in an ungainly heap. Grabbing a fistful of shirt, Merlin pulled Arthur to him. Arthur resisted, floundering until he found Merlin's wrists, pinning them above his head and pushing him down into the mattress.

“Hold still,” Arthur commanded, and reluctantly released him. Merlin didn't move.

Arthur shifted until he straddled Merlin's waist, accidentally catching Merlin's nose with an elbow in the process. Merlin was breathing heavily, his ribs rising and falling under Arthur's hands. Tugging Merlin's shirt free from his belt, Arthur pushed it up slowly. He'd forgot to unfasten the cuffs, and the shirt caught at Merlin's wrists. Arthur struggled with the buttons, but then left them, Merlin's wrists still tangled in the material.

Propped up on one arm, Arthur trailed the back of his fingers down the side of Merlin's face and followed the curve of Merlin's cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. The skin was hot, betraying Merlin's blush. Along Merlin's temple, Arthur paused to push the hair from his forehead, his fingers carding through the soft strands. Arthur wondered how Merlin looked flushed and tousled, and the thought made him heat in turn.

With the tips of his fingers, Arthur brushed the delicate skin of Merlin's eyelids, which drifted shut under his touch, and traced the hollows under his eyes, the bridge of his nose, the gentle intent above his lip. Merlin's mouth parted slightly as Arthur drew a finger across his lower lip. The barest tip of his finger teased the sensitive skin on the inside of Merlin's lip before he retreated. His palm cupped Merlin's jaw, and his fingers came up to lightly pinch the lobe of Merlin's ear. Merlin shuddered, grunting a little. Arthur smiled and leaned forward to lick the shell of Merlin's ear.

That produced a little keening whine, and Merlin tilted his head to allow Arthur better access. Arthur sucked on the lobe, worrying it with his teeth. When he pulled back, Merlin started to whimper a protest, but Arthur kissed him. Merlin immediately yielded, opening to Arthur's kiss, his own tongue slipping into Arthur's mouth.

They kissed, back and forth, and Arthur had to pin Merlin's wrists again when he tried to cheat. Arthur's perception contracted to the slick juncture of their mouths, and he was aware of nothing but the feel of Merlin's tongue and lips and teeth against his. Finally though, he broke the kiss to move his attentions to Merlin's neck and collarbone. His hands wandered along Merlin's sides, and Arthur was startled by just how easily he could find each rib and by the sharp jut of Merlin's hips. Morgana had been right; Merlin was too thin. Guilt prickled at the back of his mind, and he suspected he knew what had run Merlin so ragged. Arthur pushed that unhappy thought away, pausing with his hand over Merlin's heart. The beat under his palm was strong and steady.

“You're beautiful, you know,” Merlin whispered, his voice husky and choked. The unexpected words jarred Arthur out of his reverie.

Arthur smiled sweetly and covered Merlin's mouth with his hand. “Don't make me gag you.”

Merlin bit him, though his teeth slipped against Arthur's sweaty palm, failing to pinch the skin.

Arthur exacted swift revenge, bringing his free hand up between Merlin's legs to fondle him through the cloth of his breeches. Merlin made a strangled noise through Arthur's hand and jerked as though he had been burned. Arthur cupped him a moment longer, feeling Merlin twist and tremble beneath him, and then reached for Merlin's belt, unbuckling it with one hand.

Merlin was taking gasping, noisy breaths, so quickly that he was almost panting. Arthur's own fingers almost shook as he eased the front of Merlin's trousers open and took him in hand. The head of his cock was already damp and leaking. Arthur gave it a couple experimental strokes, but he was unused to the angle and it felt awkward.

Arthur let go, ignoring Merlin's unhappy moan, and laid next to him so their sides pressed together. Arthur spit in his hand and groped for Merlin's cock again. Much better, he decided; he could work Merlin with the same practised stroke he used on himself. He went slower, though, drawing it out, fascinated by the feel of flesh under his fingers.

Merlin wasn't making any noise now besides the uneven sound of his breathing. Arthur shifted again, working his left arm under Merlin's neck so his hand could caress Merlin's face. Arthur could feel the ridge of Merlin's forehead where his brows were drawn together, and his mouth was open. Merlin's face turned toward Arthur's searching fingers, and his mouth caught the first two, sucking them in to the second knuckle. Arthur shuddered convulsively and nearly forgot to keep stroking.

Merlin stopped sucking to cry out abruptly, and then shuddered and went still as he spilled himself over Arthur's fist. They were both quiet as Merlin's breathing slowed, but Arthur's own cock was hard and insistent. Merlin was still slack and boneless as Arthur hesitated, suddenly feeling strangely self-conscious, and then undid his own breeches. It was distinctly unfair that Merlin got to see him when he couldn't see Merlin, but he was not so bothered by the inequity to keep from stroking himself.

“I can--” Merlin said, and Arthur kissed him to shut him up -- a strategy that worked rather well, actually. Arthur manoeuvred himself over Merlin, thrusting against the slickness on his belly. Merlin's lips pressed against Arthur's temple, and he was whispering something, but Arthur was too focused on his own need and the sensation of skin on skin to care. It only took a few ungainly thrusts before he added to the mess on Merlin's belly.

With effort, Arthur rolled off Merlin, his limbs feeling heavy and cumbersome. He had let his eyes close when he heard Merlin rise.

“Stay,” Arthur said, and then added, “If you want. The bed's big enough.”

“Oh. Um,” Merlin said. “Let me get cleaned up a bit first, all right?”

Arthur grunted an affirmation, reaching for a pillow. His boots were already off, so it was merely a question of getting under the bedclothes with as little effort as possible. He heard water being poured as Merlin cleaned himself up. By the time Merlin crawled in behind him, one arm over his waist, Arthur was asleep.

\---

The bed was empty when Arthur awoke.

“Merlin?” he called, trying to sound imperious and not lonely.

“I'm here,” Merlin answered.

Arthur sighed and stretched thoroughly. “I don't suppose you've got breakfast ready?”

“I'm afraid you'll have to wait for breakfast,” Merlin answered. “Your father has called you for an audience.”

\---

Uther was waiting in the formal audience chamber.

“You called for me, Sire?” Arthur said and released Merlin's elbow. Merlin retreated, leaving him to stand alone before the throne, and Arthur felt a pang of regret, but he could hardly cling to his manservant's arm like a child to his mother's apron.

“Ah, Arthur, how are you?” Uther asked, and his voice echoed against the arched ceiling of the hall.

“Very well. Thank you,” Arthur replied stiffly.

“Ah, good. Glad to hear it. Is there anything you need?”

“No, Sire,” Arthur said, struggling to keep from gritting his teeth at Uther's uncharacteristic display of concern.

“Good,” Uther repeated. “Very good. I've called you here to inform you I've invited Sir Degrave of Lavain to come stay with us as my special guest. I expect you to be courteous and welcoming to him as he settles in. He'll be helping with the knights, so you'll need to be on hand to answer any of his questions.”

Arthur had to work a moment to swallow the lump in his throat. “Of course, father.”

“That is all.”

Arthur bowed and Merlin was at his side again.

\---

“He wants me to train my own replacement!” Arthur said as soon as they were safely behind closed doors. He found his way to the bed and flung himself down onto it.

“So he's getting some extra help with the knights, so what. It doesn't mean anything.”

“You're either patronising me or a complete moron,” Arthur said. “Or both!”

Merlin sighed. “The man hasn't even arrived yet....”

“Merlin, when my father said he can't have a blind heir, he was serious. It's been nearly two months, and I haven't improved, and he's losing hope that I ever will.” Arthur rolled onto his back, his head lolling over the edge of the bead. “So now he's auditioning lords for the role of crown prince, and if it's not this one, there will be others.”

Merlin was silent, but the bed shook a little as he climbed onto it. He didn't come any closer, though, until Arthur held out hand in invitation.

“When does he arrive, then?” Arthur asked in resignation as Merlin settled beside him, managing to dig his extremely bony elbow into Arthur's ribs. Arthur shifted until they were a position more to his liking, Merlin's knee between his own and his head pillowed against Merlin's arm.

“Tomorrow morning,” Merlin said, sounding unhappy. “Arthur, please trust me ... it's going to be all right.”

“_Right_, of course,” Arthur said.

\---

Horse hooves clattered over the cobblestones of the courtyard. Arthur stood with Morgana to his right and Merlin to his left and a step behind. The sun was hot, and sweat threatened to soak through his shirt, doubtlessly ruining the princely effect he'd been hoping for.

“Here he comes,” Merlin said.

“What's he look like?”

“Ugly. Even uglier than you. Face like a turnip.”

Morgana hushed them, but Merlin continued in a loud whisper. “Big too, lots of hair, heavy brow. Did I mention the ugly?”

Arthur struggled to keep from grinning as Uther called out the formal greeting and welcomed the Lord Degrave to Camelot.

“My ward, Morgana,” Uther said, and her skirts rustled as she curtsied. “And this is my son, Arthur.”

“I am at your service, my prince,” Sir Degrave said, and Arthur thought that he _sounded_ ugly.

“You'll have be patient with my son; he's suffered a tragic accident,” Uther said, probably worried that Arthur would embarrass himself.

“My condolences, Sire,” Degrave said slowly and loudly. “Are you feeling well today?”

“Quite well, though my father must not have told you -- I'm merely blind, there is nothing wrong with my ears and my mind works as well as it ever did.”

“I meant no offence, Sire,” Degrave said, but Uther interrupted.

“I'm sure you're feeling quite fatigued by this morning's excitement, Arthur. Why don't you retire to your room.” There was no mistaking it as anything but an order.

Arthur bowed and turned, Merlin catching his arm.

“They're watching,” Merlin said. “Morgana looks amused and Degrave's mouth is hanging open. Your father looks none too pleased.”

“Good,” Arthur said emphatically. “I hope I've disgraced myself sufficiently.”

\---

Arthur was obliged to endure a tour of the keep, and he even remained civil as Degrave remarked on the extent of the armoury and asked about the knights' practice tournament. Clearly he was already planning the improvements he intended to make.

“Ah! The arm's attached, you know,” Merlin said as Arthur's grip tightened in response to Degrave's observation that they should look into upgrading their practice lances.

Arthur eased up, taking a deep breath. “Sorry.”

\---

Arthur informed Degrave that Merlin was at his personal disposal the rest of the afternoon and returned to his room alone. Arthur couldn't see Merlin's expression of horror and betrayal, but he didn't need to.

He returned to his room and packed a spare shirt, flint, and supplies he'd stolen from the kitchen -- cheese, apples, and bread. He didn't bother with his mail, but he took his sword. It was a foolish gesture, but he found its familiar weight comforting.

\---

Arthur made good progress through the lower town and left by the western gates. He stretched his legs, walking as quickly as he dared. Still, it would have been much faster on horseback. He pushed that thought from his mind -- he'd finish this if he had to crawl the entire way.

The road grew rougher as it wound its way up through the hills. His ankle turned in a rut and he fell hard, skinning his knees.

“_Brilliant_,” he muttered, pushing himself up and probing his injuries. Blood trickled down his shins, but his throbbing ankle held his weight.

He felt certain he would soon reach the crest of the hill, but it just continued on. Half an hour, then an hour. Or maybe not; he could hardly judge the time. The land levelled out -- the top of the hill, finally. He didn't know if this was near the place he'd first met with the sorcerer, but it seemed close enough.

“Sorcerer,” he said, but his voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Sorcerer! If you can hear me, I call you to single combat. Come now or prove yourself a coward.” Arthur stopped and listened.

A mocking bird called in the distance; he refused to take it as a sign.

He tried again on the next hill.

\---

And on the one after that.

\---

“Treacherous, filthy, lying _sorcerer_!” he finished, frustrated as his challenge went unanswered. He sat down and propped his elbows on his knees.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up a moment before someone said, “Well. This really is quite a sight.” The voice was male, mellow, and infinitely amused.

Arthur scrambled to his feet, his ankle twinging.

“You are him, aren't you,” Arthur said, and though he hadn't heard the sorcerer's voice during the attack, he was sure. “The sorcerer who cursed me.”

“You've been bleating for me like a lamb that's wandered from its ewe.” The sorcerer chuckled and Arthur's cheeks heated.

“Yet you wait until now to show yourself.”

“You would have too, if you were me -- really, you are too amusing. Please understand, entertainment out here is hard to come by. One must take it where one finds it.”

“You were toying with me.”

“That, too,” the sorcerer agreed amiably.

“This ends here and now,” Arthur said, drawing his sword. It felt good and familiar in his hand. He hoped he was brandishing it in the right direction. “Lift the curse now and I will let you live. Failure to do so means your death.”

“That is a rather grand threat from a lost lamb like you,” the sorcerer said. “I don't think I will lift it. I've had more than enough Pendragons on the throne as it is.”

Arthur bellowed in outrage and charged, swinging his sword around wildly, but met nothing. Something caught him on the shoulder, and a jolt went through his arm. He held onto his sword, but only just. When he touched his arm, his fingers came away wet with blood, though he didn't think the wound was bad. He thought of the armour he'd left behind.

“Really, now. I'm embarrassed for you.” The sorcerer was behind him now. Arthur whirled, but found nothing. The sorcerer struck again, opening a long cut along Arthur's ribs.

“How long are you going to play at this?” The voice came from another direction entirely, somewhere over Arthur's left shoulder.

Arthur was confused now, unsure where the edge of the hill was. If he fell down the slope, he was sure to break his neck or back on the rocky outcroppings. Arthur raised his sword again, but hesitated, a faint sound suddenly drawing his attention. Someone was shouting his name. _Merlin_.

He could hear the hoof beats now, and Merlin's voice grew stronger, though Arthur could catch none of the words but his own name. And maybe _stupid_.

“Excellent,” the sorcerer said. “I was afraid he would be late.” They both waited as Merlin drew closer.

“What do you think you are doing?” Merlin said, with a little grunt as he dismounted. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“I'm challenging this sorcerer--”

“You really are, aren't you? Trying to get yourself killed, I mean. Of all the unbelievably stupid things--” Merlin broke off, overwhelmed. He grabbed Arthur's shoulders, and Arthur winced at the strength of Merlin's grip. “We're going home.”

“Get out of here, Merlin.” Arthur freed himself. “I will return to Camelot in triumph. Or I will not return at all.” He swallowed. “This is not your quarrel.”

“He really has no idea, does he?” the sorcerer said, exasperated.

“No, he really doesn't,” Arthur snapped, almost amused that Merlin's gormlessness was obvious to even those who'd just met him.

“He's talking to me, Arthur,” Merlin said quietly.

Arthur opened his mouth, but of all the questions he wanted to ask, the one he managed was “_What?_”

“So, you've told him nothing,” the sorcerer gloated. “This will be good.”

“Shut it, you,” Merlin snapped.

“Merlin, do you know this, this sorcerer?” Arthur demanded.

“No!” Merlin quickly protested. “Er, well, not really. We've only met the once. It's not like we're friends.”

“Oh good, you're not _friends_. What a relief.” Arthur took a breath to steady himself. “Merlin, what is going on?”

“The thing of it is,” Merlin started, sounding choked, “that there may be a tiny, little, insignificant thing you don't know about me. And really, in the grander scheme, there's so much that we don't know about each other that this one little thing hardly matters.”

“Merlin,” Arthur warned, and he could actually hear as Merlin swallowed.

Merlin didn't reply, but he cupped Arthur's face in his hands. Arthur jumped at the sudden contact, but then relaxed under the familiar feel of Merlin's fingers. Merlin started whispering strings of syllables Arthur didn't understand but recognised as magic, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He wanted to shove Merlin away, but found he couldn't move, couldn't hear beyond the soft sound of Merlin's voice, couldn't feel anything but the warmth of his hands and the caress of his breath on Arthur's cheek.

Arthur felt as though he were falling, and his eyes were hurting, but -- light, he could see light! His tears streamed down his face as Merlin's face came into focus. His hair was mussed, and his eyes glinted gold before fading into their customary blue.

When it was clear that Arthur wouldn't fall over, Merlin released him and stepped back.

“You're a sorcerer,” Arthur said, wiping his damp cheeks.

Merlin ducked his head in that way he had when he expected a cuffing. “Sort of. Yes. He was using you to get to me.”

Arthur turned away, feeling nauseated. The sorcerer stood with arms crossed, watching the scene impassively. He seemed smaller than Arthur remembered, but no less threatening. A wave of rage washed over Arthur and receded just as quickly.

“You see, Emrys?” The sorcerer's voice was soft and cajoling now. “You knew this would happen. You reveal yourself and meet only hatred. It's why you didn't tell him.”

Merlin ignored the sorcerer, instead turning to Arthur. “Please, Arthur--”

“A sorcerer?! All this time, you've watched magic destroy my father's kingdom, and you were right there, lying to all of us, laughing behind our backs.”

“You know it wasn't like that,” Merlin said. “I only ever used magic in your service, to protect you.”

“Yet you let me languish for months, while the cure was in your grasp.”

“I wanted to help you, more than anything,” Merlin said frantically. “But I couldn't without, without--”

“Revealing yourself?” Arthur supplied with a sneer. “My father was going to _disown_ me.”

“I wasn't going to let that happen. I was working on it!” Merlin held out his hands in entreaty. “Arthur, your father would have me killed.”

“And you think I would tell him? Deliver you up to be killed?”

It was the sorcerer who said what Merlin was clearly thinking, “Yes, that's what Pendragons _do_.”

Merlin wouldn't meet Arthur's eyes. “I would die for you, Sire ... but it's not my first choice.”

“Come, Emrys,” the sorcerer said, holding a hand out to Merlin. “We must away.” Merlin hesitated, his eyes rimmed in red. “You know you must come -- you've done your duty by your princeling, now you must do your duty to yourself and your people.”

“Arthur?” Merlin's voice was small and uncertain.

“Your place is with me,” Arthur said in his most authoritative tone, drawing his aching body to its full height.

“He is not yours to command,” the sorcerer said, and though he didn't raise his voice, the air crackled. “The choice is yours, Emrys. But how do you think it will go with your prince?”

“I won't betray him,” Arthur interjected, though he hadn't been certain he wouldn't until he spoke.

“Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow,” the sorcerer replied. “But what if the crops fail? Or the plague strikes a village, and the cows go barren? How long will it take before you start to wonder who is to blame? And how long would it be before you turned to the sorcerer in your midst?”

“It won't be like that,” Arthur said, flushing angrily.

“You sound so certain. But at the back of your mind, there will always be doubt -- can you trust a sorcerer? One who lied to you? One who could have ended your blindness in a moment, but left you to suffer for months?”

“Hey,” Merlin snapped, affronted. “I didn't do it for fun.”

The sorcerer turned back to Merlin. “And can you live under the same roof as a man who has put hundreds of your kind to death? Knowing his son can condemn you to the same fate?”

“I trust Arthur.”

The sorcerer laughed bitterly. “If that were true, you would have told him months ago.”

“Er, well. It was complicated!” Merlin protested, turning from the sorcerer to Arthur. He raised a hand in entreaty. Arthur flinched.

“You see?” the sorcerer crowed. “Even now he fears you will turn him into a frog.”

Merlin's eyes widened in hurt, and Arthur nearly took a swing at the sorcerer; only knowing that the blow would never land stayed his fist.

“Merlin, don't listen to him,” Arthur said, closing the space between them. Merlin tensed, looking uncertain. Arthur forced himself to relax as he reached out for Merlin and embraced him. Merlin was stiff and unyielding, but slowly he relaxed in Arthur's arms.

Merlin's hands came up to hold Arthur's face, searching for something.

“Your eyes are bluer than I remember,” Arthur said, surprised.

Merlin smiled crookedly and then kissed Arthur. For a moment, Arthur was startled, but then his eyes drifted shut as the familiarity of it washed over him.

“I should have guessed,” he heard the sorcerer mutter behind them, but neither of them paid him any mind, and when they broke the kiss, the sorcerer was gone.

“Then we're going back?” Merlin said.

“Yes, we've got to send dear Lord Degrave on his way,” Arthur replied, swinging up onto Merlin's horse and turning to help Merlin up behind him in the saddle. He paused and said, “You know, I've just realised something -- I've never seen you naked.”

Merlin blushed to the tips of his ears and tucked his head as he held tight to Arthur's waist. “Well. That can be remedied.”

 


End file.
